ST. LAZARE.
The prison of St. Lazare, especially devoted to female thieves and
prostitutes, is daily visited by many ladies, whose charity, whose
names, and whose social position command universal respect. These
ladies, educated in the midst of the splendours of fortune,--these
ladies, properly belonging to the best society,--come every week to pass
long hours with the miserable prisoners of St. Lazare; watching in these
degraded souls for the least indication of an aspiration towards good,
the least regret for a past criminal life, and encouraging the good
tendencies, urging repentance, and, by the potent magic of the words,
Duty, Honour, Virtue, withdrawing from time to time one of these
abandoned, fallen, degraded, despised creatures, from the depths of
utter pollution.
Accustomed to delicacy and the most polished breeding of the highest
circles, these courageous females quit their homes, after having pressed
their lips on the virgin foreheads of their daughters, pure as the
angels of heaven, and go into dark prisons to brave the coarse
indifference or infamous language of these thieves and lost women.
Faithful to their tasks of high morality, they boldly plunge into the
tainted soil, place their hands on those gangrened hearts, and, if any
feeble pulsation of honour reveals to them a slight hope of recovery,
they contend for and snatch from irrevocable perdition the wretched soul
of which they have never despaired.
Having said so much by way of introduction to the new scenes to which we
are about to direct attention, we will introduce the reader to St.
Lazare, an immense edifice of imposing and repulsive aspect, situated in
the Faubourg St. Denis.
Ignorant of the shocking drama that was passing at her own house, Madame
d'Harville had gone to the prison, after having received certain
information from Madame de Lucenay as to the two unhappy females whom
the cupidity of Jacques Ferrand had plunged into misery. Madame de
Blinval, one of the patronesses of the charity of the young prisoners,
being on this day unable to accompany Clemence to St. Lazare, she had
gone thither alone. She was received with great attention by the
governor and the several female superintendents, who were distinguished
by their black garments and the blue riband with the silver medal which
they wore around their necks. One of these superintendents, a female of
mature age, with a serious but kind expression of countenance, remained
alone with Madame d'Harville, in a small room attached to the registry
office.
We may easily suppose that there is often unrecognised devotion,
understanding, commiseration, and sagacity amongst the respectable
females who devote themselves to the humble and obscure function of
superintendent of the prisoners. Nothing can be more excellent, more
practical, than the notions of order, work, and duty which they
endeavour to instil into the prisoners, in the hope that these
instructions may survive their term of imprisonment. In turns indulgent
and firm, patient and severe, but always just and impartial, these
females, incessantly in contact with the prisoners, end, after the
lengthened experience of years, by acquiring such a knowledge of the
physiognomy of these unfortunates that they can judge of them almost
invariably from the first glance, and can at once classify them
according to their degree of immorality.
Madame Armand, the inspectress who remained with Madame d'Harville,
possessed in a remarkable degree this almost supernatural prescience as
to the character of the prisoners; her words and decisions had very
great weight in the establishment.
Madame Armand said to Clemence:
"Since madame wishes me to point out to her such of our prisoners as
have by good conduct, or sincere repentance, deserved that an interest
should be taken in them, I believe I can mention to her a poor girl whom
I believe to be more unfortunate than culpable; for I am not deceived
when I say that it is not too late to save this young girl, an unhappy
creature of not more than sixteen or seventeen years of age."
"And for what is she imprisoned?"
"She is guilty of being found in the Champs Elysees in the evening. As
it is prohibited to such females, under very severe penalties, to
frequent, by day or night, certain public places, and as the Champs
Elysees are in the number of the forbidden promenades, she was
apprehended."
"And does she appear to you interesting?"
"I never saw features more regular, more ingenuous. Picture to yourself,
my lady, the face of a Virgin; and what adds still more to the
expression of modesty in her countenance is that, on coming here, she
was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of Paris."
"She is, then, a country girl?"
"No, my lady; the inspectors knew her again. She had lived for some
weeks in a horrible abode in the Cite, from which she has been absent
for two or three months; but, as she had not demanded the erasure of her
name from the police registries, she comes under the power of that body,
which has sent her hither."
"But, perhaps, she had quitted Paris to try and reinstate herself?"
"I think so, madame; and it is therefore I have taken such an interest
in her. I have questioned her as to her past life, inquired if she came
from the country, and told her to hope, as I did myself, that she might
still return to a course of good life."
"And what reply did she make?"
"Lifting her full and melancholy blue eyes on me, filled with tears, she
said, with angelic sweetness, 'I thank you, madame, for your kindness;
but I cannot say one word as to the past; I was apprehended,--I was
doing wrong, and I do not therefore complain.' 'But where do you come
from? Where have you been since you quitted the Cite? If you went into
the country to seek an honest livelihood, say so, and prove it. We will
write to the prefect to obtain your liberty, your name will be scratched
off the police register, and you will be encouraged in your good
resolutions.' 'I beseech you, madame, do not ask me; I cannot answer
you,' she replied. 'But, on leaving this house, would you return again
to that place of infamy?' 'Oh, never!' she exclaimed. 'What, then, will
you do?' 'God only knows!' she replied, letting her head fall on her
bosom."
"Very singular! And she expresses herself--"
"In very excellent terms, madame; her deportment is timid and
respectful, but without servility; nay, more, in spite of the extreme
gentleness of her voice and look, there is in her accent and her
attitude a sort of proud sorrow which puzzles me. If she did not belong
to that wretched class of which she forms one, I should say that her
haughtiness announces a soul which has a consciousness of dignity."
"But this is all a romance!" exclaimed Clemence, deeply interested, and
finding, as Rodolph had told her, that nothing was more interesting than
to do good. "And how does she behave with the other prisoners? If she
is endowed with that dignity of soul that you imagine, she must suffer
excessively in the midst of her wretched associates."
"Madame, for me, who observe all from my position, and from habit, all
about this young girl is a subject of astonishment. Although she has
been here only three days, yet she already possesses a sort of influence
over the other prisoners."
"In so short a time?"
"They feel for her not only interest, but almost respect."
"What! these unhappy women--"
"Have sometimes the instinct of a remarkable delicacy in recognising and
detecting noble qualities in others; only, they frequently hate those
persons whose superiority they are compelled to admit."
"But do they hate this poor girl?"
"Far from it, my lady; none of them knew her before she came here. They
were at first struck with her appearance. Her features, although of
singular beauty, are, if I may so express myself, covered with a
touching and sickly paleness; and this melancholy and gentle countenance
at first inspired them with more interest than jealousy. Then she is
very silent, another source of surprise for these creatures, who, for
the most part, always endeavour to banish thought by making a noise,
talking, and moving about. In fact, although reserved and retiring, she
showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from taking
offence at her coldness of manner. This is not all: about a month since,
an intractable creature, nicknamed La Louve (the she-wolf), such is her
violent and brutal character, became a resident here. She is a woman of
twenty years of age, tall, masculine, with good-looking but strongly
marked features, and we are sometimes compelled to place her in the
black-hole to subdue her violence. The day before yesterday, only, she
came out of the cell, still irritated at the punishment she had
undergone; it was meal-time, the poor girl of whom I speak could not
eat, and said, sorrowfully, to her companions, 'Who will have my bread?'
'I will!' said La Louve. 'I will!' then said a creature almost deformed,
called Mont Saint-Jean, who is the laughing-stock and, sometimes in
spite of us, the butt of the other prisoners, although several months
advanced in pregnancy. The young girl gave her bread to this latter, to
the extreme anger of La Louve. 'It was I who asked you for the allowance
first!' she exclaimed, furiously. 'That is true; but this poor woman is
about to become a mother, and wants it more than you do,' replied the
young girl. La Louve, notwithstanding, snatched the bread from the hands
of Mont Saint-Jean, and began to wave her knife about, and to vociferate
loudly. As she is very evil-disposed and much feared, no one dared take
the part of the poor Goualeuse, although all the prisoners silently
sided with her."
"What do you call her name, madame?"
"La Goualeuse; it is the name, or rather the nickname, under which they
brought her here who is my protegee, and will, I hope, my lady, soon be
yours. Almost all of them have borrowed names."
"This is a very singular one."
"It signifies in their horrid jargon 'the singer,' for the young girl
has, they told me, a very delightful voice; and I believe it, for her
speaking tones are sweetness itself."
"But how did she escape from this wretch, La Louve?"
"Rendered still more furious by the composure of La Goualeuse, she
rushed towards her, uttering menaces, and with her uplifted knife in her
hand. All the prisoners cried out with fear; La Goualeuse alone, looking
at this fierce creature without alarm, smiled at her bitterly and said,
in her sweet voice, 'Oh, kill me! Kill me! I am willing to die. But do
not make me suffer too great pain!' These words, they told me, were
uttered with a simplicity so affecting, that almost all the prisoners
burst into tears."
"I can imagine so," said Madame d'Harville, deeply moved.
"The worst characters," continued the inspectress, "have, fortunately,
occasional good feelings. When she heard these words, bearing the stamp
of such painful resignation, La Louve, touched (as she afterwards
declared) to her inmost core, threw her knife on the ground, fell at her
feet and exclaimed, 'It was wrong--shameful to threaten you, Goualeuse,
for I am stronger than you! You are not afraid of my knife; you are
bold--brave! I like brave people; and now, from this day forth, if any
dare to molest you, let them beware, for I will defend you.'"
"What a singular being!"
"This incident strengthened La Goualeuse's influence still more and
more. A thing almost unexampled here, none of the prisoners accost her
familiarly. The majority are respectful to her, and even proffer to do
for her all the little services that prisoners can render to one
another. I spoke to some of the women of her dormitory, to learn the
reason of this deference which was evinced towards her. 'It is hardly
explicable to ourselves,' they replied; 'but it is easy to perceive she
is not one of us.' 'But who told you so?' 'No one told us; it is easy to
discover it.' 'By what?' 'By a thousand things. In the first place,
before she goes to bed, she goes down on her knees and says her prayers;
and if she pray, as La Louve says, why, she must have a right to do
so.'"
"What a strange observation!"
"These unhappy creatures have no religious feeling, and still they never
utter here an impious or irreligious word. You will see, madame, in all
our rooms small altars, where the statue of the Virgin is surrounded
with offerings and ornaments which they have made. Every Sunday they
burn a quantity of wax candles before them in _ex-voto_. Those who
attend the chapel behave remarkably well; but generally the very sight
of holy places frightens them. To return to La Goualeuse; her companions
said to me, 'We see that she is not one of us, by her gentle ways, her
sadness, and the manner in which she talks.' 'And then,' added La Louve
(who was present at this conversation), abruptly, 'it is quite certain
that she is not one of us, for this morning, in the dormitory, without
knowing why, we were all ashamed of dressing ourselves before her.'"
"What remarkable delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!"
exclaimed Madame d'Harville.
"Yes, madame, in the presence of men, and amongst themselves, modesty is
unknown to them, and yet they are painfully confused at being seen half
dressed by us or the charitable visitors who come, like your ladyship,
to the prison. Thus the profound instinct of modesty, which God has
implanted in us, reveals itself even in these fallen creatures, at the
sight of those persons whom they can respect."
"It is at least consolatory to find some good and natural feelings,
which are stronger even than depravity."
"Assuredly it is; and these women are capable of devoted attachments
which, were they worthily placed, would be most honourable. There is
also another sacred feeling with them, who respect nothing, fear
nothing, and that is maternity. They honour it, rejoice at it; and they
are admirable mothers, considering nothing a sacrifice to keep their
children near them. They will undergo any trouble, difficulty, or danger
that they may bring them up; for, as they say, these little beings are
the only ones who do not despise them."
"Have they, then, so deep a sense of their abject condition?"
"They are not half so much despised by others as they despise
themselves. With those who sincerely repent, the original blot of sin is
ineffaceable in their own eyes, even if they should find themselves in a
better position; others go mad, so irremediably is this idea imprinted
in their minds; and I should not be surprised, madame, if the heartfelt
grief of La Goualeuse is attributable to something of this nature."
"If so, how she must suffer!--a remorse which nothing can soothe!"
"Fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent than is commonly
believed. The avenging conscience is never completely lulled to sleep;
or, rather, strange as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the
soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor; and this remark I again
made last night in reference to my protegee."
"What! La Goualeuse?"
"Yes, madame."
"In what way?"
"Frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, I walk through the
dormitories. You would scarcely believe, my lady, how the countenances
of these women differ in expression whilst they are slumbering. A good
number of them, whom I have seen during the day, saucy, careless, bold,
insolent, have appeared entirely changed when sleep has removed from
their features all exaggeration of bravado; for, alas, vice has its
pride! Oh, madame, what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and
gloomy faces! What painful sighs, involuntarily elicited by some dream.
I was speaking to your ladyship just now of the girl they call La
Louve,--an untamed, untamable creature. It is but a fortnight since that
she abused me in the vilest terms before all the prisoners. I shrugged
up my shoulders, and my indifference whetted her rage. Then, in order to
offend me more sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful things
of my mother, whom she had often seen come here to visit me."
"What a shameful creature!"
"I confess that, although this attack was not worth minding, yet it made
me feel uncomfortable. La Louve perceived this, and rejoiced in it. The
same night, about midnight, I went to inspect the dormitories; I went to
La Louve's bedside (she was not to be put in the dark cell until next
day) and I was struck with her calmness,--I might say the sweetness of
her countenance,--compared with the harsh and daring expression which is
habitual to it. Her features seemed suppliant, filled with regret and
contrition; her lips were half open, her breast seemed oppressed,
and--what appeared to me incredible, for I thought it impossible--two
tears, two large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose
disposition was of iron! I looked at her in silence for several minutes,
when I heard her say, 'Pardon! Pardon! Her mother!' I listened more
attentively, but all I could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely
intelligible, was my name, 'Madame Armand,' uttered with a sigh."
"She repented, during her sleep, of having uttered this bad language
about your mother."
"So I believe; and that made me less severe. No doubt she desired,
through a miserable vanity, to increase her natural insolence in her
companions' eyes, whilst, perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in
her sleep."
"And did she evince any repentance for her bad behaviour next day?"
"Not the slightest, but conducted herself as usual, and was coarse,
rude, and obstinate; but I assure your ladyship that nothing disposes us
more to pity than the observations I have mentioned to you. I am
persuaded (I may deceive myself, perhaps) that, during their sleep,
these unfortunates become better, or rather return to themselves, with
all their faults, it is true, but also with certain good instincts, no
longer masked by the detestable assumption of vice. From all I have
observed, I am led to believe that these creatures are generally less
wicked than they affect to be; and, acting upon this conviction, I have
often attained results it would have been impossible to realise, if I
had entirely despaired of them."
Madame d'Harville could not conceal her surprise at so much good sense,
and so much just reasoning, joined to sentiments of humanity so noble
and so practical, in an obscure inspectress of degraded women.
"But my dear madame," observed Clemence, "you must have a great deal of
courage, and much strength of mind, not to be repulsed by the
ungratefulness of the task, which must so very seldom reward you by
satisfactory results!"
"The consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages, and
sometimes we are recompensed by happy discoveries; now and then we find
some rays of light in hearts which have hitherto been supposed to be in
utter darkness."
"Yet, madame, persons like you are very rarely met with?"
"No, I assure your ladyship, others do as I do, with more success and
intelligence than I have. One of the inspectresses of the other division
of St. Lazare, which is occupied by females charged with different
crimes, would interest you much more. She told me this morning of the
arrival of a young girl accused of infanticide. I never heard anything
more distressing. The father of the unhappy girl, a hard-working, honest
lapidary, has gone mad with grief on hearing his daughter's shame. It
seems that nothing could be more frightful than the destitution of all
this family, who lived in a wretched garret in the Rue du Temple."
"The Rue du Temple!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville, much astonished; "what
is the workman's name?"
"His daughter's name is Louise Morel."
"'Tis as I thought, then!"
"She was in the service of a respectable lawyer named M. Jacques
Ferrand."
"This poor family has been recommended to me," said Clemence, blushing;
"but I was far from expecting to see it bowed down by this fresh and
terrible blow. And Louise Morel--"
"Declares her innocence, and affirms her child was born dead; and it
seems as if hers were accents of truth. Since your ladyship takes an
interest in this family, if you would be so good as to see the poor
girl, perhaps this mark of your kindness might soothe her despair, which
they tell me is really alarming."
"Certainly I will see her; then I shall have two protegees instead of
one, Louise Morel and La Goualeuse, for all you tell me relative to this
poor girl interests me excessively. But what must be done to obtain her
liberty? I will then find a situation for her. I will take care of her
in future."
"With your connections, madame, it will be very easy for you to obtain
her liberty the day after to-morrow, for it is at the discretion of the
Prefect of Police, and the application of a person of consequence would
be decisive with him. But I have wandered from the observation which I
made on the slumber of La Goualeuse; and, with reference to this, I must
confess that I should not be astonished if, to the deeply painful
feeling of her first error, there is added some other grief no less
severe."
"What mean you, madame?"
"Perhaps I am deceived; but I should not be astonished if this young
girl, rescued by some circumstance from the degradation in which she was
first plunged, has now some honest love, which is at the same time her
happiness and her torment."
"What are your reasons for believing this?"
"The determined silence which she keeps as to where she has passed the
three months which followed her departure from the Cite makes me think
that she fears being discovered by the persons with whom she in all
probability found a shelter."
"Why should she fear this?"
"Because then she would have to own to a previous life, of which they
are no doubt ignorant."
"True; her peasant's dress."
"And then a subsequent circumstance has confirmed my suspicions.
Yesterday evening, when I was walking my round of inspection in the
dormitory, I went up to La Goualeuse's bed. She was in a deep sleep,
and, unlike her companions, her features were calm and tranquil. Her
long, light hair, half disengaged from their bands, fell in profusion
down her neck and shoulders. Her two small hands were clasped, and
crossed over her bosom, as if she had gone to sleep whilst praying. I
looked for some moments with interest at her lovely face, when, in a low
voice, and with an accent at once respectful, sad, and impassioned, she
uttered a name."
"And that name?"
After a moment's silence, Madame Armand replied, gravely:
"Although I consider that anything learnt during sleep is sacred, yet
you interest yourself so generously in this unfortunate girl, madame,
that I will confide this name to your secrecy. It was Rodolph."
"Rodolph!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville, thinking of the prince. Then,
reflecting that, after all, his highness the Grand Duke of Gerolstein
could have no connection with the Rodolph of the poor Goualeuse, she
said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at her exclamation:
"The name has surprised me, madame, for, by a singular chance, it is
that of a relation of mine; but what you tell me of La Goualeuse
interests me more and more. Can I see her to-day? now--directly?"
"Yes, madame, I will go, as you wish it, and ask her; I can also learn
more of Louise Morel, who is in the other side of the prison."
"I shall, indeed, be greatly obliged to you, madame," replied Madame
d'Harville, who the next moment was alone.
"How strange!" she said. "I cannot account for the singular impression
which this name of Rodolph makes upon me! I am really quite insane! What
connection can there be between him and such a creature?" Then, after a
moment's silence, the marchioness added, "He was right; how all this
does interest me! The mind, the heart, expand when they are occupied so
nobly! 'Tis as he said; we seem to participate somewhat in the power of
Providence when we aid those who deserve it; and, then, these excursions
into a world of which we had no idea are so attractive,--so amusing, as
he said so pleasantly! What romance could give me such deep feelings,
excite my curiosity to such a pitch? This poor Goualeuse, for instance,
has inspired me with deep pity, after all I have heard of her; and I
will blindly follow up this commiseration, for the inspectress has too
much experience to be deceived with respect to our protegee. And the
other unhappy girl,--the artisan's daughter, whom the prince has so
generously succoured in my name! Poor people! their bitter suffering has
served as a pretext to save me. I have escaped shame, perhaps death, by
a hypocritical falsehood. This deceit weighs on my mind, but I will
expiate my fault by my charity, though that may be too easy a mode. It
is so sweet to follow Rodolph's noble advice! It is to love as well as
to obey him. Oh, I feel it with rapture! His breath, alone, animates and
fertilises the new existence which he has given me in directing me to
console those who suffer. I experience an unalloyed delight in acting
but as he directs, in having no ideas but his; for I love him,--ah, yes,
I love him! And yet he shall always be in ignorance of this, the
lasting passion of my life."
* * * * *
Whilst Madame d'Harville is waiting for La Goualeuse, we will conduct
the reader into the presence of the prisoners.